


A Quiet Evening

by ExcuseMeMissT



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: Dinner, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, literally just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 19:59:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16919421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExcuseMeMissT/pseuds/ExcuseMeMissT
Summary: A very detailed description of my favorite dish, featuring Tessa and Scott.





	A Quiet Evening

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I waxed poetic about food for about 75% of this story but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> I'm supposed to be studying but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Enjoy this short, fluff piece and pray that I pass tomorrow.
> 
> As always, if you're reading this Miss T and Mr. Moir, I'm so sorry and I hope you like biryani.
> 
> If I've made any writing mistakes, feel free to correct me.

You know he’s in your apartment before you turn the key in the lock.

You know because you can smell the delectable aroma of tomatoes currying with a spice blend that you have no idea where he got. You’ve been at work all day and now you’re exhausted beyond belief so as the strong scent shoots up your nose, you feel a headache start right in the center of your forehead, stretching its roots the depths of your brain and cementing itself into a migraine. You should’ve seen it coming though. You spent the entire day running here and there in the most uncomfortable pair of nude heels your mum gifted you on Christmas and you’re pretty sure your feet will stay numb for a good while.

You also know it’s his annoying ass currently destroying the peace of your home because you can hear the shitty country music he’s so into.The audacity of this man.

Resting your head against the door, you hear a sharp sizzle of something being fried in a pan. The new pan you’d bought the other day. The non-stick one that’s supposed to be easy to use and now he’s going to ruin it if he’s not careful. Your fury rises again, clawing its way back up your chest and souring your mood even further. You angrily wrench at the straps of your heels and pry them off, almost moaning in relief when your feet touch the cold floor of the corridor.

He knows you hate it when he just barges in, misuses your spare key and starts to mess up your kitchen with some sort of new cooking experiment. It’s been a while since he last dropped by but you know he’s going to use a million teaspoons as he cooks. You know that the peppers and turmeric are going to stain your pristine, white cutting board when he’s done with whatever experiment he’s up to. You know that while he cooks, he likes to flick the pan to toss it's contents and his antics usually lead to a shit ton of oil and food grease buildup on your pristine, white stove. You know that he’s going to muddle up your utensils drawer and mix the spoons with the forks. You know he’s going to switch jars with their cabinets and maybe even switch their lids.

Your brain fails to remind you that he always cleans up after, but you excuse yourself for the little detail because you're tired.

You sigh as you enter your apartment after taking a breather to calm yourself down so that you don’t launch into a yelling fit as soon as he enters your line of sight. Your therapist would be proud. You try to make your presence know by loudly taking off your trench coat and hanging it in the peg next to his. You toss your heels by the shoe rack where they land with a dull thud next to his trainers, neatly placed in the shelf. You pull your limp hair out of its restricting bun and throw the pins and your keys onto the side table where his wallet and earphones are also haphazardly kept.

His stuff fits so naturally in your apartment that you have to take a moment to just gather yourself and understand that he is in your apartment, in your kitchen, cooking up some exotic dish for dinner. You trudge into your kitchen just as a Tragically Hip song comes on and he starts to sing along, lightly swaying on his feet as he gently sautés a handful of chopped onions into your pan. His head bobs with the music and moves to lower the flame of one of the five stoves, all of which are occupied, mind you, and lifts the lid of one of the pots. Your nose is immediately invaded with smells of roasted fennel seeds, cardamom pods, and masala chicken and you feel your headache start to subside. He grabs another smaller pot and overturns its content into the masala mix and as he does so, a cloud of vapor poofs into his face, startling him as it goes. You let out a demure chuckle and walk over to his distressed form as he is awkwardly perched over your stove, holding a half-empty pot of steaming rice and scrunching his face up. You turn on your exhaust fan, because he always forgets to, and grab a serving spoon from a counter nearby to scrap the last of the rice out and into the larger vessel, and as the rice rains down you see that it is speckled with cashews and raisins which leaves you so monumentally confused. You gently pry the pot from his hands and set it aside, watching as his face relaxes at your touch, though his eyes are still tightly shut. You reach for the kitchen towel draped over his shoulder and use a clean edge to wipe away the condensed water from his face. You do it slowly, deliberately dragging the towel down one side of his face and then the other, taking in his handsome features. High cheekbones, sharp angles in his face and a chiseled jaw that sometimes ( all the time) rests on your shoulder. You pat at his pointed nose and you can almost feel the phantom sensation of it burying into your neck when he’s upset or dragging it by the shell of your ear when he tries to whisper sweet nothings to you. You take note of the crows’ feet etched into the corners of his eyes from years and years of happy memories and happy accidents. The lines deepen as his mouth tugs up into a soft smile. Speaking of his eyes, you want to see them and see _him_. But not yet.

You move to wipe at his top lip where some sort of sauce is dabbed and you giggle to yourself at his messy antics. His smile widens into a smirk and then he leans forward, pouting his lips for a kiss.

You swat at him with the towel, refusing to give in, as he winds his arms around your waist pulling you close and capturing you in his warm embrace. He slowly opens his eyes and they glow, the warmth of the deep brown and the seductive green that dance around the edges dazzling you. He leans in again but just enough for your foreheads to touch.

“Hello, love.” He whispers and his warm breath washes over your face, easing the taut muscles and your mouth twitches as you try so hard to fight a smile. You only hum contently in response. You fleeting anger may have evaporated but the exhaustion is still there. He sees it in your eyes as he stares you down.

“What’re you doing in my kitchen at ten PM, Scott?”

“Cooking you biryani because you were talking about how you haven’t had some in a while,”

“And this colossal mess? Who’s going to clean that—“ you don’t get to finish your question because pulls away, practically wrenches out of your hold to attend to the food that may have started to burn. He places a lid on the pot of biryani and lowers the flame so that it just barely peaks past the sides. You watch intently as he sets the cupcake-shaped kitchen timer to ten minutes and then he turns to you with a grin plastered to his face as he ushers you into bar stool by the counter. You aren’t able to express your gratitude towards him in any way as he pulls out a bottle of wine from a cabinet and pours you a generous amount. _I don’t deserve him_ , you think as he kneels at your feet and gently begins to massage them, moving upwards to your extremely sore calves. His fingers gently knead the muscles beneath your skin and as they skim over the faint pink ridges of your scars, he chats you up, telling you about his day and the newest school project Quinn needed his help on so she called her favorite uncle. Ten minutes pass by in the snap of a finger and soon he rises to plate out the dish he’s prepared especially for you, garnishing the top with a spring of mint because _the presentation is key, T._

You shamelessly watch him load your dishwasher with all the utensils he’s used- making sure to wash your new non-stick pan in the sink- shut all the cabinets and wipe down the stove with the towel you’d left on the counter. He finally washes his hands in the sink and serves himself, stowing away the rest of the biryani in your fridge. You both take your first bites at the same time and the intense, bursting flavors make you moan. The sweet and savory taste of cinnamon coupled with a million other spices you can’t recognize that season the first bite of chicken you take is practically psychedelic. The well-cooked meat melts in your mouth and as you chew you raise your head to see him grinning at you so smugly it’s almost exasperating.

Almost because his eyes are filled with love to the brim, sparkling in the dimmed mood lighting of your kitchen. He smiles at you again and your heart stutters as excitement floods your veins.

“I love you,” you groan around the food in your mouth, which would shock your mother into oblivion, but manners be damned, it’s just so _good_.

“Are you talking to the food or to me, love?”

“Obviously the food, Scott.”

“Hmm, sure.” He spoons some rice into his mouth as he tells you he loves you too.

You clink your wine glasses and toast to a quiet evening where he cracks jokes and gets you to unleash your boisterous laugh, the one that escapes your belly without permission. The one only he is able to coax out of you. Even after twenty-one years, he still makes you giggle like a schoolgirl.

 

And just like that, your exhaustion is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like it? I hope you did.  
> Leave a kudos, drop me a comment!
> 
> Don't be shy, come say hi at my ko-fi [Fey](http://ko-fi.com/feyruh)
> 
> Come yell at me on twitter if you'd like, [@ExcuseMeMsTessa](https://twitter.com/ExcuseMeMsTessa)  
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
